Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime (19 page)

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Authors: Robert J. Randisi

BOOK: Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime
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I
DECIDED TO TRY dropping in on Peter Lawford first. I had the feeling if I waited until the next day, Lawford wouldn’t remember me. He struck me as being a very self-involved type.
I called up from downstairs and he told me to come on up, assuring me that I would not be bothering him. When I knocked on the door of his suite he called “Come in.”
I entered and I saw he was on the phone. He waved at me to approach and pointed to a sofa. I noticed that his suite was not as spacious as Dean Martin’s.
“Yes, Pat,” he said into the phone. He was dressed casually in tan slacks and an open-neck white polo shirt. “Yes, dear.” He rolled his eyes at me and I shrugged. His hair was wet, presumably from his shower from the steam room. I’d also had a shower, using the facilities the hotel made available to employees.
“Well, just tell Jack that Frank—” He stopped short and frowned. “I am not Frank’s lackey, or his errand boy, dear.” He was remarkably calm for a man whose wife had just called him those names. “Frank is devoted to helping Jack get elected. All I’m trying to do is my part for the family. Yes, well, you ask Jack if he wants Frank’s help or not and see what he says. And then ask Bobby, see what he says.” He listened again, then jumped in, as if he was interrupting
her. “I have to go now, love. I have to get dressed for the show. Yes, I know I’m an actor, not a performer. I act like I’m performing.”
Apparently, Peter’s wife agreed with both Jerry and me about his presence on stage with great entertainers like the rest of the Rat Pack. I had never met the woman, but found myself liking her.
“Yes, I will,” he said, leaning over to hang up the phone. “Yes … yes … yes …”
With the phone still against his ear he stooped down closer and closer toward the base, as if he was going to hang up any second.
“I love you too, dear,” he said, and finally hung up. “My wife,” he said, unnecessarily. “Are you married?”
“No,” I said. “Never have been.”
“Smart man. Can I get you as drink? Or a cigarette?”
“No, I’m okay,” I said.
“I’m going to have one of both.”
He walked to the bar, moved around behind it.
“I won’t take up too much of your time,” I said. “I know you have to get ready for the, uh, show.”
“Yes,” he said, pouring himself what looked like scotch. “Frank absolutely insists that I go on stage with he and Dean and the others. It’s ludicrous, really, but there you are. One must keep the leader happy.”
It sounded to me like he was talking about someone like Hitler, not Frank Sinatra.
The actor came around the bar with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
“What did you want to talk to me about … Eddie, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Eddie. Mr. Lawford—”
“Oh, call me Peter, please,” he said interrupting me. “Any friend of Frank’s is a friend of mine.”
“Uh, on the phone a minute ago,” I asked, “the Jack you were talkin’ about, that was JFK, right?”
“Our next president,” he said, proudly, “if Frank and I have anything to say about it. Will you be voting for Jack Kennedy, Eddie?”
“I really don’t know, Peter,” I said. “The election is a long way off.”
“Indeed it is, but we’re working hard now too—oh, never mind that. You didn’t come up here to talk politics, did you?”
“Now, I didn’t,” I said. “The Sands is concerned that you be satisfied with your stay.”
“Is that why you’re here?” he asked, surprised. “To see if I’m happy with my room?”
“Not exactly,” I said. I went with a story I’d come up with just after leaving Frank. “Apparently some guests have been getting’ threats. We wondered if you’d received any.”
“What kind of threats?”
“Phone calls, letters, notes—”
“Death threats?” He looked concerned, took a good, long sip of his drink.
“Threats of bodily harm,” I said. “We haven’t really heard anything about death threats, uh, yet.”
“You know, my wife is part of the Kennedy family,” he said.
“I know that. Have you gotten any threats, Peter? Of any kind?”
“No, no,” he said, “no, none … yet. Other guests have, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Uh, regular guests, or celebrities?”
“I’m not really sure—”
“Because if someone is threatening the regular guests, well then, I suppose I’d have nothing to worry about, but if they’re targeting famous people—this could get into the papers, couldn’t it?”
“It might,” I said. “Publicity is good for an actor, isn’t it?”
“Normally, yes.”
“Normally?”
“Well, with the election and all, Joe—uh, Jack’s father, Joseph Kennedy is running JFK’s campaign—Joe wouldn’t like any bad publicity.”
I wondered if Joe Kennedy considered mugging on stage with the Rat Pack bad publicity.
“So, you haven’t been threatened?” I needed to get a straight answer from him.
“No,” he said. “No threats.”
“All right, then.” I put my hands on my knees and pushed myself up. “I won’t bother you with this anymore.”
“If I do get threats, uh,” he said, walking me to the door, “What should I do?”
I almost told him to call me, but in the end I simply said, “Call security. They’ll take care of it immediately.”
As I left I was thinking it sounded to me like Peter Lawford wouldn’t have minded some bad publicity—or publicity of any kind, for that matter.
I
HADN’T EXPECTED to see May Britt in Sammy’s room with him, but I was doubly surprised to see May’s mother was there, as well.
“Come on in, man,” Sammy said. He’d answered the door himself, wearing a white shirt and black pants. “May and her mother were leaving to do some shopping.” He pronounced her name “My.” “Honey, this is Eddie—I don’t know your last name.”
“Gianelli,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Britt. Congratulations on your upcoming wedding.
May Britt was a breathtaking beauty, with the blondest hair and clearest, smoothest skin I’d ever seen. I knew half a dozen casinos who would have hired her to be a showgirl on the spot, but she already had a career of her own as an actress. I wondered how much heartache was in the couple’s future because of the differences in their race. As for her mother, it was easy to see where she got her looks from. Mrs. Wilkins was an older, slightly faded version of her daughter.
“Thank you very much,” May said. I found her Swedish accent charming, and understood immediately why Sammy fell in love with her. “I’m very happy to meet you.”
“Come, Mama,” she said. “We must allow the men to talk.”
“I’ll see you later, baby,” Sammy said, and they shared an affectionate kiss.
When the women were gone Sammy said, “Isn’t she something?”
“She sure is,” I said. “Beautiful. You’re a lucky man.”
“Wonder what she’s doin’ with a one-eyed black Jew?” he asked. I searched his face for any sign of belligerance, but there was none.
“No, Sammy, I don’t,” I said. “I imagine she sees in you what women are supposed to see in the men they love.”
Sammy Davis Jr. laughed, slapped my arm and said, “You’re all right, man. Drink?”
“No, thanks. You go ahead.”
“Naw,” he said. “I’ve got to get ready for the show. You wanted to ask me something?”
I found Sammy different when he wasn’t around the others. He was more relaxed and comfortable with himself. When he was around Frank he seemed too eager to want to please him. I wondered why a phenomenal talent like him had to kowtow to anybody, even a Frank Sinatra. But I was also sure that there were things about Sammy’s life, and his relationship with the other members of the group I didn’t know, and would never understand.
However, I wondered if Sammy was not a member of Frank’s “Clan,” if he would have been allowed to stay in a suite at the Sands. Negroes were not allowed to stay in the casino hotels, then, not even entertainers. Jack Entratter, by giving into Frank’s demand that Sammy be given a suite, was inadvertently leading the way to change things in Vegas, when it came to segregation.
I fed Sammy the same story I’d given Peter Lawford and he just shrugged.
“Hey, man, the only threats I been getting are the usual ones. Nothing new to me.”
“Then I won’t take up anymore of your time.”
Sammy walked me to the door.
“Any chance I can get you to tell me what’s really goin’ down?”
“What do you mean?” He’d caught me off guard, but I thought I handled it well. Sammy Davis Jr. was no dummy.
“I mean you’re a real cool cat, Eddie,” he said. “Why would Jack Entratter waste your talents on an errand like this?”
“Sammy, I—”
“Forget it,” he said, quickly, waving my response away. “Forget I even asked. When Frank or Dean want me to know what’s goin’ on, I guess they’ll tell me.”
He opened the door and I felt I had to say something to him while we were alone.
“Sammy, I just want to tell you that I think you’re an incredible talent, and you seem like a nice guy.” I heard myself gushing and tried to stop, but I was impressed with the man.
“I am a nice guy, Clyde,” he said, with a smile.
“Well, I just want to say I wish you and May all the best, and I hope you won’t let what some ignorant bastards say and think—ah, what the hell. I guess I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about, really.”
“Yeah, ya do,” he said. He took my hand in his powerful grip. “You know what you’re sayin’ just fine, Eddie. Thanks.”
He released my hand and I stepped out into the hall. He closed the door gently, still smiling. I felt we connected in that moment, really connected. I thought how lucky I’d be if I could call Sammy Davis Jr. my friend.
H
ENRY SILVA and Richard Conte were not given suites in the Sands, but they were put up in good-sized guest rooms. I spoke to both of them briefly, giving the same story. Neither had received any threats. They also didn’t seem to know that Dean Martin had been threatened. They thought Frank wanted them to accompany Dean to the set for another reason—to keep him out of trouble.
“Frank says Dean’s havin’ trouble with Jeannie, and might do somethin’ foolish,” Henry Silva told me.
Nick Conte had been told the same story by Frank, but I could tell he didn’t believe it. Conte and Dean were close, coming from similar Italian backgrounds. But apparently Conte was like Sammy, willing to go along until he was told differently.
I wasn’t able to find Angie Dickinson to speak with her. I was starting to think she was avoiding me.
I decided not to ask any of the others the same questions. I had a consensus now, and it seemed that the only one receiving threats was Dean.
For want of something better to do I decided to stick around the casino and wait for the show in the Copa to be over. Dean Martin had said he wanted to deal some blackjack tonight. He usually did that when there was a good-looking woman at the table. She’d bust with
twenty-two and he’d change the rules and tell her she won. It also drew a crowd, which I wasn’t convinced was a good idea tonight. I wished Jerry was around.
If I was going to be around the pit I’d have to dress better, though, but I wasn’t about to go back home without Jerry watching my back. I decided to change into a suit I kept at the casino in case of an emergency.
I had showered and was standing in front of a locker, tying my tie, when Jack Entratter walked in. A couple of dealers I knew were also getting dressed in front of their lockers and looked nervous as Entratter entered. As far as I knew Jack had never been in that locker room.
“You boys finished?” he asked them. “Yer shift is about to start.”
“Yes, sir,” one of them said. They both got the message and hurriedly left.
“What brings you down here, Jack?”
“I’ve been lookin’ for you everywhere.”
“I was talkin’ with Sammy and Peter Lawford, and a few of the others.”
“You didn’t tell them what’s goin’ on, did ya?” he demanded.
“I’m not stupid, Jack.”
“No,” he said, “sorry.”
“But Sammy’s no dummy, and Nick Conte knows Dean well enough to figure out something’s up.”
“Well, just leave it to Frank to fill them in when he’s ready.”
“That was my plan.” I finished with my tie and slammed the locker door closed. I didn’t lock it because I kept nothing of value inside.
“Why were you lookin’ for me, Jack?”
“You goin’ to the show tonight?”
“I wasn’t plannin’ to.”
“What are you dressed for, then?”
I told him about Dean wanting to deal, and my promise to be around.
“I want you to go to the show. Here.”
He reached in his jacket pocket, came out with a ticket and handed it to me.
“You need another one? Wanna bring a broad?”
“No,” I said. “One’s enough.” I pocketed it. “Why do you want me to go?”
“Because I trust you, Eddie,” he said.
“To do what?”
“The right thing.”
Entratter had a lot of men at his disposal, most of them like Jerry—pros.
“What’s this about, Jack?”
“I need someone to watch things, somebody who won’t embarrass me and the casino.”
“Embarrass you how? Come on, what’s goin’ on?”
He hesitated, then said, “You know about Frank supporting JFK for president, right?”
“Sure, who doesn’t?”
“Well, he’s gonna be here.”
“Who’s gonna be here?”
“Come on, Eddie, keep up,” he said, irritably. “Jack Kennedy. He’s gonna be at the show tonight.”
“Wait … the man who might be the next president of the United States is here?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do about it?”
“Just be there,” he said, “and watch.”
“Is his wife with him?”
“No,” Entratter said. “So you can see the potential for trouble here? A handsome Senator, presidential candidate, in Vegas with the little woman at home?”
“I see your point.”
“Where they go tonight,” Jack said, “you go. Promise me, Eddie.”
“What about Dean? He wants to deal.”
“If Frank takes Kennedy out, Dean will either go along, or just go to his room. So let him deal, and then see what he wants to do. If he’s in his room he’ll be okay. If he goes along, you’ll have to go anyway, to watch him.”
“I’m no bodyguard, Jack,” I said. “What about Jerry? Is he gonna get out tonight?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “We’re still workin’ on that. You gotta help me out, Eddie.”
“This goes above and beyond work, Jack,” I said. “Or even our original, uh, favor.”
“I know, I know,” Entratter said. “I’ll owe you, owe you big-time.”
It wouldn’t hurt to have Jack Entratter indebted to me.
“Whataya say?” he asked, anxiously.
“Yeah,” I said, “okay, why not? A night out on the town with Sinatra and JFK? Where’s the harm in that, right?”
“No harm at all,” he said, and then added, “I hope.”

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